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In Confidence
'Suncrest Manor: Parlor ' ---- ::''Furnished by warmer hues of burgundy and dark cherry wood, the parlor acts as an inviting respite from the cool splendor of the receiving hall for more intimate conversation. The hearth is kept alight across from the doorway and partners with silver sconces on the walls to the desired amount of light. Illuminated by these sconces are the faces of the remaining Mikin bloodline in superbly painted portraiture. ::''A lush rug of mudbear fur sprawls over the center of the chamber. A cherry wood tea table stands atop it. Positioned on either side of the table are two burgundy cushioned couches that have sloping, curved frames to accommodate the reclined form of the body, but no back. A cushioned chair of matching color perches near the hearth. ::''A window is carved from an outward bowing nook above the hearth. Often resting on its lower pane is a bundle of dried, fragrant herbs to be wafted about the room by any permitted breeze. ---- A small silver tray has been set on the side table, there resting two goblets and two pitchers of wine. The window is shut tightly and the room is lit by a roaring fire; it sends red light and flickering shadows dancing across the room. Reclining on one of the couches is a small blonde woman, who appears to have chosen to occupy herself with a book for the time being. The only sound is that of the rainfall beating against the outside of the manor house. Taran is shown to the parlor by a servant who seems quite keen to get this job done and get gone. In the doorway, the bard bows - not too shabby in ringmail - and says, "Your grace, I answer the summons." "All the better." Milora accepts the goblet with a nod of her head, taking a heavy sip before setting it on the floor at the side of the couch. "Do you also rarely sit on sofas, or may I entice you to do so?" She gives a vague gesture toward the piece of furniture opposite her own as she says this. Taran enters the room, then, and pours a cup of wine for the Duchess but not for himself. "I rarely drink alcohol, your grace," he says calmly. "All the better." Milora accepts the goblet with a nod of her head, taking a heavy sip before setting it on the floor at the side of the couch. "Do you also rarely sit on sofas, or may I entice you to do so?" She gives a vague gesture toward the piece of furniture opposite her own as she says this. Taran takes the offered seat with a nod, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. It's possible the Lute, under his heavy cloak, has something to do with that posture. Propping herself up on an elbow, Milora makes a rather sharp study of Taran. "When I heard it reported from a trusted friend and ex-Bladesman that you had given aid and protection to a murderer and an Unmarked mage, I was fully prepared to have you tried for treason," she tells him, her voice even. Taran seems entirely unfazed, the tilted blue eyes regarding Milora with absolute calm. "You use the past tense, your grace," he replies. "I made a mistake characteristic of fictional villains," she says by way of explanation, equally calm. Taran raises both eyebrows at that - a hint of amusement in his voice as he answers, "I believe the list of mistakes characteristic of fictional villains is very, very long, your grace." Continuing, her tone cool and very grave: "I allowed myself to be subject to compassion. I recalled the strong personal affection that I have for you. I summoned to my mind memories of small things you have done for me, that have meant a /very/ great deal to me, and of a variety of attributes that you have shown which would incline me to believe that you are neither a bad person nor as colossal a fool as I would label you at this moment." "Ah," Taran replies calmly. "And so you will remand me to custody then, your grace?" he asks, as if discussing the weather. "You will have me Lessened? Executed?" His head tilts slightly. "The list of options is very long, I am afraid." "How odd that you claim to fear something so trivial at this time." For the first time, Milora cracks a small smile - dry and subtle, but not totally without humour. "But you are not really afraid at all, are you?" A sound of reflection is produced. The smile vanishes; Milora spends a moment stretching her neck, shifting her position and then placing a finger near her mouth in thought. "Now you are waxing a little too dramatic for my taste. Do you suppose that you might explain yourself without frustrating me?" Taran shrugs. "I am a bard," he says, as if that explains everything. "As to answers, your grace...first, a question. Do you think you can kill her?" An audible breath through her small nose, and a twitch of her cheek are both made. "I think that I would like her dead, and I am not afraid to execute a criminal. That does not answer your question, however. I have told you that I /would/ kill her. Whether I /can/ is another matter entirely, and the answer to your question pertaining to it will be withheld for now." Taran nods. "That is the crux of the matter, your grace," he says calmly. "You have heard reports of her abilities. I can tell you that she has played lightly with you so far. Gently, even. She was unforgivably harsh *but only with her targets*, your grace. Everyone else, *everyone* else who has stood against her, she has only used the minimum of force required to escape. Consider this, please, your grace, as I ask again - *can* you kill her? If you have no warning of where she will strike, or against whom? Can you have forces in place that will kill her before she can escape?" Milora listens to this, absorbing the information presented to her. She does not answer, but she rather erects herself on her sofa and gives Taran a hard, searching look. "Why are you asking me this?" she inquires in a low voice. "Because it is the question I have been asking since I met her," Taran replies simply. "I knew in moments I could not kill her. Not in a true, fair fight of any kind. She is far too strong, far too quick. I would not lay wager on any mage I know, save perhaps their graces Nillu and Seamel, of so much as surviving a true fight with her, where she is willing to kill. But I am not a soldier, nor a leader of forces. I do not know what tactics exist or if there are light-blessed who can counter her powers. What I do know is, regardless of whether or not she *dies*, she must still be prevented from killing again." The Arbiter reclines again, heavily and with a silent but thick exhalation of breath. "I believe you." This is said at great length, and with great gravity, as though it were carefully considered. "I think that I am beginning to understand you now, but I would like you to continue." She seizes her wine and takes another long drink. "I doubt she will surrender herself to a judgment where she will only be Lessened or killed, your grace," Taran says calmly. "But ultimately that is not my concern; it is hers, and perhaps yours. I found myself in a unique position in this matter; my priorities are not yours. I am not concerned so much with law or even justice so much as this - she cannot be allowed to kill again. If that means she disappears, I will have no qualms about it. But understand I have placed myself as the last resort; while I cannot betray her to you without destroying this option, should I fail in all other respects I will kill her by any means I have - most of which you would likely find dishonorable." He holds up a hand. "As to why I have not already done so...blame a soft heart. And an honest assessment of my own skills - should my one strike fail, my betrayal will anger her far more than a whole fort of Watchmen and all Fastheld pay the penalty." For a while after Taran has finished, Milora looks at him, unmoving and unblinking except for the replacement of her wine on the floor. At last she drops the hand that was placed near her mouth, her thumbnail relieved from her habitual gnawing. "Does she trust you, Taran?" Taran nods. "For now, it seems. As with all things, it may or may not be a true thing that I see - she has diviner's powers and can shield her mind from me. But...at the moment...I would say yes." "Keep that trust." Milora nods, rising from her place and extended a hand toward Taran. "That is all, Master Songbird. You are free to go where you please, now, but be careful." Taran rises, putting his hand lightly under Milora's and bowing over it. "I have done what I can, where I can, to save who I can, your grace. If you can kill her - if you find any means that you are sure of - then use them. I do not act to keep her from harm, and she knows I cannot." A curt nod is given. "I have put my faith in you, Taran," Milora says softly, looking up at the man with a solemn expression. "Do not make me regret it. Good evening." Taran turns to go. "Good evening, your grace." Category:Logs